


This beast that you're after

by det395



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Eating raw flesh, Feral Will Graham, Getting Together, Kinda, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of body image/weight/food issues, Obsession, POV Hannibal Lecter, Season/Series 01, Sexual Content, Violence, eating someone alive, hannibal is weird and creepy and gay, hannibal seriously simps for will, medical scare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/det395/pseuds/det395
Summary: Will Graham has an innate, savage craving for human flesh that comes to the surface the first time Hannibal feeds him.Inspired by the movieRaw (2017)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 180





	1. Chapter 1

The beauty is in the subtlety. He knows the intensity of a taboo, a fear so intense it usually gets mistaken for anger, for violence. It would be an exciting turn of events to see someone work it out. Nonetheless, a thousand words are spoken in the way that people consume his meals with ease—crossing the boundary that few would ever consider crossing, each chew marking the liminal space between tear and swallow. And what comes of the flavours bursting but a surprised widening of the eyes, a small moan of pleasure?

Across the stretch of a few seconds, of the first bite, Hannibal considers the details. Each muscle in a human’s jaw, designed to tear and consume. 

He doesn’t understand why mannerliness is thought to be mutually exclusive from the savage. Why so many deny themselves of this pleasure so inherent to their nature. It is a privilege to sit at his dining table, to unknowingly or not dine on a delicacy mostly lost to the ages. 

The satisfaction he gains from changing people in this subtle way is almost unmatchable. People are malleable if only you reach that which is already stirring inside them.

Will is malleable, extremely so. Hannibal can tell the moment a person catches Will’s attention by the way he mirrors back their very movements. Many different individuals must take up space in his muscle memory. 

It isn’t Will’s malleable nature that fascinates Hannibal like most. It’s what’s already below the surface, stirring. And it’s  _ something  _ there. He begins to wonder if anyone could be on the inside of his little jokes.

He recognizes the naivety with some annoyance. Either way, he knows he can wind Will up some, drill deeper into his brain.

At the end of the day, he would choose his controlled chaos. Beautiful things take patience and time and resources, and he has every intention to take them. It begins with a bite.

The first thing Hannibal notices is that Will is hesitant. He considers the Tupperware with a questionable frown, as though considering if the effort to consume it is even worth it. In a quick motion, he starts scraping the protein scramble into an ugly mound on his plate.

The next moment, he pushes his plate aside and starts to talk about the faux Minnesota Shrike crime scene. It is both impressive and irritating.

“That crime scene was practically  _ gift-wrapped _ ,” he says. The side of Hannibal’s mouth twitches. 

Will busies his hands pouring coffee, then sips it with a strange timidness, but consumes it nonetheless. He grimaces. At the taste, Hannibal wonders? He had to use the hotel room’s coffee maker, but he knows it’s made as perfect as possible with the facilities at his disposal.

His brain aches to connect the strange behaviour. It feels good to strain against the confusion for once, search for the end of the string. Will eludes him in more ways than one. He’s hoping that there’s an interesting motive below the surface, that Will isn’t as unspeakably rude as he seems to be acting. What a disappointment that would be. It was difficult enough to get invited into the hotel room.

“Do you have problems with the food?” Hannibal asks sharply.

Slowly, Will slides the plate back in front of him and inspects it as though it’s something strange he’s preparing to dissect. He holds the fork loosely in his fingers.

“Don’t take it personally. I’ve always had some issues.”

“Your problem with taste?”

“You could say that.”

“Is it an intolerance? I’d like to know for next time. I insist everyone enjoy the food in my presence.”

Will shrugs half-heartedly, paired with a slight shake of his head. He skewers a piece of sausage. 

He brings it to his mouth with such speed, as though he means to squeeze his eyes shut and force it down as quickly as possible. Hannibal watches closely.

“Nah, it’s not—” he begins to say with his mouth full, but he cuts off and goes still.

Slowly, he chews a few more times, furrowing his eyebrows enough for a small line to form. Hannibal leans forward instinctively to watch. 

If he listens carefully, he can hear the spit in Will’s mouth as he grinds his teeth. 

Will swallows and sucks in a breath immediately after, his eyes slightly crossed. He blinks rapidly and then looks up at Hannibal again. Embarrassed.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “Um.” He clears his throat again.

“If you dislike the food…” Hannibal begins, knowing full well that it wasn’t a look of disgust he just observed.

“No, no. I just zoned out for a second, sorry. It’s good. It’s delicious, actually.” He furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“What a high compliment. Thank you.”

“There’s not much food that I like. Maybe I can get this recipe from you?” 

“I don’t tend to share my recipes so readily, but perhaps with time I will trust you with it. I am happy to make it for you more. Perhaps you would enjoy my other meals.”

Will digs through the scramble to find another piece of sausage, and then another. His eyes shine and Hannibal finds himself entranced.

The idea that it could be recognition crosses his mind, but that doesn’t quite fit. They are alike in some ways, clearly, but Hannibal still has yet to piece it together.

Will finishes all of the meat in the dish, moving around the eggs and vegetables to find more bits, his fork scraping against the plate with a distressing noise. When he looks up again, a red patch forms on the high point of each of his cheeks. Hannibal can practically smell his blood pumping. Quickly, he decides to distract Will from his self-consciousness.

“You know, Will? I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest china used only for special guests.”

He’s surprised to see Will’s eyes crinkle in amusement, followed by a genuine laugh. He leans back in his chair and covers his mouth with his hand. He looks like a different person entirely for a moment. Lively.

“How do you see me?” he asks. 

Hannibal considers other acts of savagery, ones that are so utterly human. Frustratingly human, if he considers how distracting Will’s eyes are. He finds himself doubting whether or not it’s a true lace of seduction in Will’s voice that he picks up. He had first gauged Will as repressed.

Hannibal considers his response for a moment.

“The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”

Will smiles, then looks confused before his smile falls completely. He looks at his plate, picked free of sausage. 

“I wish I had more to give you,” Hannibal says.

“It’s fine,” Will says. He shakes out his collar as if to cool himself down.

“Come for dinner tonight. No one truly dislikes food. People just haven’t found what they enjoy. I will show you.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Will mutters, then stands so abruptly the chair scrapes against the floor with a jarring noise. “Excuse me.”

Will is hidden in the hotel bathroom a moment later and Hannibal chuckles to himself. More fascinating than he’d first expected.

-

Hannibal has never seen anything like this before. Hadn’t so much as dreamed of something like this happening. Will’s strange behaviour is still eluding him, and the fun of it is intoxicating.

It starts when they drive to a construction site. Sweat drips down Will’s forehead even as the air conditioning blasts in their faces. Will is spaced out and fidgety, then high strung and impatient when they begin flipping through folders in the little construction trailer.

Hannibal watches Will in the reflection of the window. He twitches and he trembles, blinking rapidly and throwing folders around aimlessly. There’s still a great deal of sweating, a dry rash on the back of his neck, some lack of focus. He has no clue what could be the cause of such symptoms. He wonders how long Will is going to suffer before allowing himself to complain. 

Will slaps the back of his neck and Hannibal takes the excuse to look directly at him. He’s starting to scratch at his torso.

Will meets eyes with Hannibal from under his eyelashes, then quickly looks away.

“Fuck. Maybe I do have allergies. Or maybe the hotel sheets weren’t clean,” he mutters. 

“May I see?” Hannibal asks. He’s almost certain this is something entirely different than allergies, though.

“No.” He stops his scratching immediately and yanks another folder out of the drawer. “This one,” he whispers.

Hannibal listens to Will converse with the receptionist and smiles to himself. He has no idea what Will sees. 

-

It isn’t just that Will is trembling. It’s more like a monster is trying to break its way through his skin. 

His breath started coming out in little gasps long before a woman stumbled out of the house with her throat gaping open. As they kneeled over a young girl with blood flowing out of her neck, Will’s movements turned into something closer to convulsions. He looked as though he might vomit or scream or pass out at any second. Once Hannibal’s hand wrapped around the girl's neck, Will stood and ran away. He considered loosening his hand and letting the blood flow, but the opportunity in front of him was too great.

Hannibal wishes more days were as interesting as this one.

He watches the ambulance drive away with the teenage girl inside and then goes on the hunt for Will. Hannibal walks around for a few minutes, ignoring the law enforcement scattered around the yard. Probably not a single one of them could understand what went on in that house tonight. Fools, they are.

There’s a tiny splotch of blood on the grass, as though red rained from the sky. Hannibal follows the trail. He goes quietly and stays close to the wall when he looks around the side of the house.

To have a memory as detailed as his, it is important to observe everything. There is no detail too small. Not the loose threads of clothing or chip of paint on the wall, not the way his pants bunch up around his knees, the cowlick at the back of his head almost hidden by his curls. Not the peculiar rhythm of Will’s shaking leg or the way his shoulder blades dig into the stone wall. Hannibal stares at the scene in front of him reverently and commits it to memory, every inch around the way Will’s tongue drags hungrily over the blood on his hand.

Will sucks at the thick red substance in the space between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes closed in concentration. He bites his own hand and furrows his eyebrows until a small moan comes out. A moment later, his eyes pop open.

Hannibal doesn’t let his face betray any emotions, not even the bliss he’s currently feeling. He hears the notes of a song play in his head, something entirely new, something that he must remember to play when he returns home. 

Will is wide-eyed and Hannibal recognizes the panic of shame. He walks forward, and Will steps back.

“‘For whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them,’” Hannibal says with a smile.

“What?” Will stutters. Hannibal grabs Will’s wrist and holds it tight so Will can’t pull away, though he tries weakly. 

Hannibal presses down on the bone in Will’s wrist and puts his thumb against his pulse, feels the tremble he’s been watching all day. Then, he lowers his mouth and brings Will’s bloody hand to his lips.

Will wrenches away violently and stares at Hannibal in horror. Hannibal licks his lips where a drop of blood touched his lip. It is sweet, rich.

Only a small percentage of his attention is on the taste. The vast majority of his focus is being put toward memorizing the exact smear of blood across Will’s mouth, how it stains his lips and sinks into the spaces between his teeth, a blot pressed to the lower right side of his cheek in the shape of the lines on his hand.

“Would you like to come over for dinner?” Hannibal asks.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Will wipes his mouth on the inside of his elbow and shakes his head repeatedly. He starts backing up, faster and faster until he’s taking off in a sprint in the opposite direction as though running for his life.

Hannibal sighs, smiling after him.


	2. Chapter 2

The call comes later than he expected. He’s almost resigned himself to missing Will for the entire night when his ringtone plays at nearly two am.

“Hello, Will.”

“What the  _ fuck  _ did you do to me?” Will’s voice is strained, nearly a growl.

“What do you think I did?”   
  
“I don’t know, drug the food? I don’t—” Will groans loudly and Hannibal hears the rustling of sheets.

“I assure you, I wouldn’t ruin food like that.”

“This hasn’t ever—what is happening to me?” Will sobs.

“Let me help you. I can make it all go away, Will. I’m coming over now.”

“No, God, you’re—”

“Yes?”

Will stays quiet. “Just tell me what to do. I need a doctor? This could be… a panic attack? A seizure? I have… this rash. My heart, it’s going crazy.”   
  
“Wait for me, okay?”

“No, no, don’t come.”

Hannibal hangs up the phone and then turns it on silent.

Hannibal is already in the motel closest to Will’s property so the drive only takes a few minutes. He drove past it once earlier, but the house is too far from the main drive to see anything. Trees lace the property like a barrier to the outside. It’s strategically isolated from view of any neighbours. Hannibal turns off his headlights and drives in slowly. 

The landscaping and garden are practical and clean, the porch furniture worn down but sturdy. The moon shining down reveals peeling paint down the side of the house. Hannibal pinches a strip between his fingers and pulls as much off as he can in one go, then drops it to the ground.

The porch doesn’t creak at all. He imagines that’s something that would bother Will too much. There’s an endearing aura of small projects and fix-ups around the property, that agrarian resourcefulness to keep him busy. He pads across the porch and finds a key placed under a small piece of wood that at first looks to be attached to the windowsill.

He enters with a hand full of sausage first, and tongues reach his hand—more dogs than he expected. 

It’s surprising to find Will so soon, in a bed in the front room no less. Will sits up and throws the covers off in one quick swoop. His eyes are wide and panicked. Hannibal glances at him, then turns back to count the dogs and try to pet each one.

“H—” 

Will doesn’t get out anything more than that. Perhaps a question he doesn’t want to ask? Hannibal’s own name, in a tone Will doesn’t want to make transparent?

Hannibal heads over to Will and sets his bag down on the bed. Will stares at it. 

“May I?” Hannibal asks, sliding his hand under Will’s bangs. He is soaked with sweat and burning up. Will pulls away from him.

“Show me your rash.”

Will stares at him.

“I thought you needed a doctor?”

Will hesitates but lifts up his shirt to his chest. The skin is rough and dry, bloody in spots from scratching. He drops it back down. 

“You haven’t been feeling good since this morning?” 

Will struggles to focus his eyes on Hannibal.

“What did you give me?”

“Are you still hungry?” Hannibal asks.

“What?”

The growl of Will’s stomach answers for him. He buckles halfway over and scrunches his eyes up, pressing his ankles into the bed.

Hannibal pulls out a small cooler packed into his bag.

“I ate,” Will protests.

“What did you eat?”

Will hesitates. “Some chicken.”

Hannibal observes him for a moment more and considers the smell of the house, no scent of cooked food whatsoever. His thoughts run down multiple lines of wonder at once. He opens his cooler and appraises his options.

He pulls a carefully wrapped package out of the cooler and plops it right down on Will’s thigh. 

“I don’t want anything.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

Will stares at it for a moment before pulling off the tape with trembling hands. He looks inside, a pained expression on his face.

Moving the paper away reveals a slab of raw meat, still slightly bloody, fresh from this evening. Will squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Hannibal can see the restraint.

“Something… you’re going to cook?” Will asks. He’s only feigning ignorance. Hannibal knows that Will knows exactly what’s going on. It’s the shame still grasping his throat.

Hannibal sighs. He picks up the meat with two hands and brings it to his mouth to tear off a piece. It’s unfortunate to have it plain. And raw. But it isn’t completely repulsive. Hannibal finds he can enjoy it on principle. 

He sets the meat back down on the wrapping and Will picks it up carefully. He smells it, turns it in his hands, then bites off a small shred. Hannibal watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as he gets it down and sighs. Bringing it back to his mouth, Will tears with his teeth and swallows forcefully.

Red-tinted juice slides down his forearms and drips onto the bed, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyebrows furrow as he chews through the tough meat. The smallest whimper emerges from the back of his throat. Another bite, and another, and it’s like he’s tasting food for the first time in his life.

When all that’s left is juice coating his hands, Will is still. No more twitching, no more hyperventilating. The sweat that coats him is beginning to dry. Hannibal bundles up the garbage and pushes his bag to the side.

“How do you feel?”

When Will finally opens his eyes, they’re glazed over and focused on nothing in particular.   
  


“Uh. Crazy?” 

“And that is what you fear most.”

Will chuckles. The smile is short-lived.

“I’m not entirely convinced this is reality. More likely a fever dream.”

“I assure you it’s real.”

“Why is this happening to me?” Will asks.

“I believe it’s in your nature.”

“But you…” Will trails off, scrunching his face up for a moment.

“Yes?”

“You’re the same?”

“I believe you and I are quite alike, but no, not entirely.”

“I feel like I’m changing.”   
  


“And don’t you crave change? Don’t you want to experience something delicious for a change? Where is the room for the things you love, the things that bring you pleasure?”

Will is crawling out of bed immediately, running out of the room. Hannibal stands and slowly trails after him.

He hears the gagging noises before he turns to find Will hunched over the sink in the kitchen, grasping the edges. A couple fingers are pressing at the back of his throat. 

“Will. Stop.”

Spit comes up, dribbling down Will’s chin. Hannibal goes to grab him, but Will stops and jumps back before he can. Will’s hand goes straight for the knife box. The blade glints in the moonlight through the window.

“Is  _ this  _ me following my nature, Doctor Lecter?” Will asks, challenging.

“You tell me. Who are you, Will? Are you a killer?”

Will shakes his head. “I’m not so sure about you, though, Doctor Lecter.”

“What reason would I have?”

Will shifts on the spot.

“Perhaps a hunger that eats at me from the inside? A craving so unbearable I can’t sit still?” Hannibal asks.

“Stop. Don’t test me right now.” Bending down and squaring his shoulders, Will looks ready to pounce at any moment.

“I want to understand you, Will. I accept this part of you. Is that something you want to lose, now that you’re finally starting to change?”

“I think you should leave,” Will all but growls.

“Can I expect you at my dinner table? Perhaps for breakfast?”

Will hesitates, the confusion evident on his face. The hand holding the knife falters and Hannibal spins on the spot.

He finds a notepad and a pen on the counter and scrawls down his address.

“We can talk then. I’ll see if you’re feeling better and then make you something I think you’ll like. I think nine should do.”

Leaving the note on the counter and a wide-eyed Will, he turns and walks through the swarm of dogs and closes the front door behind him.

-

Will does turn up for breakfast, as Hannibal expected. He doesn’t knock. Instead, Hannibal enters the kitchen to find the barrel of a gun in his face.

“Hello, Will.”

“Doctor Lecter.” His eyes are steady on Hannibal.

“Are you here for breakfast?”

“What did you give me last night?”   
  
“Why bother asking when you know?”

Will cocks the gun and Hannibal turns away. He won’t give him the satisfaction of looking in his eyes. It would be too much of a shame to die from a bullet.

“What the hell do you want from me? Why shouldn’t I go call Jack right now?”   
  
“Perhaps you should, if you truly wish to avoid the madness. But you didn’t, so I suppose you know what I want.”

“What, you want to be my friend?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I find you interesting. Don’t you find me interesting?”

Will frowns.

“Let me see your mind, and in turn, I will feed you. That is all. Don’t you hunger, Will?”

Will hesitates. 

“Is there really a choice here? You saw what your hunger brought to you last night,” Hannibal says. A flash of desperation shows behind Will’s eyes.

“All right. Cook for me. I’ll hold onto the gun.”

Hannibal reaches into the open fridge behind him and pulls out some thawed thigh. He holds it out.

“Cook it. I’m not eating anything else that’s raw.”

Hannibal nods once, not sure if he’s disappointed or not. 

“Why don’t you grab a knife from over there. You can chop up some onion from the fridge. Perhaps we could even socialize like adults.”

-

He turns up the next day, too. And the next. There’s rarely a day that he doesn’t arrive for a meal, or at least take a Tupperware dish home from therapy. If he does disappear for a few days, there’s a wildness to his eyes when he returns. A craving for the only food he’s ever been able to keep down easily. 

Will starts out barely cordial. For a long while, they discuss the cases that Will works on and nothing more.

He’s snippy each time Hannibal mentions Abigail. Until he’s not. He refuses to talk about his imagination. Until he doesn’t. He barely looks Hannibal in the eyes. Until it’s all he does. Sometimes he even smiles.

Hannibal’s words still aren’t enough. Will catches the manipulation too easily, shuts down before Hannibal’s eyes. He carries a gun in his bag. Hannibal wonders if he’s constantly calculating the time to get to it in case Hannibal says something too damning to walk away from with his conscience intact.

Abigail comes over for dinner when she’s given more leeway by the hospital. Hannibal watches the recognition on her face as she takes a bite. Good, she’s perceptive, he thinks. Will stiffens at her reaction, chews slower, stares at the table cloth in a way that Hannibal knows means he’s currently in another place in his mind. Trying to shield his eyes. It’s unfortunate.

Abigail clearly enjoys the meal. They discuss memories and nostalgia and déjà vu without treading on too dangerous ground. She eats it almost as fast as Will does, searching for that familiar comfort. Hannibal is happy with his decision to keep her alive.

The second of a new round of Chesapeake Ripper kills is announced. He and Will skirt around the details, even though Jack grows more demanding by the day. Will understands, then. How else is Hannibal going to prepare him so many meals? 

Will grows slightly more restrained. The tremble goes away. He’s putting on weight slowly but steadily, and there’s a glow to his cheeks. Hannibal knows, though, that sometimes things need to break down before they can be built up again.

As it just so happens, his freezer is empty today. It is only one step of many.

Hannibal excuses himself to get dinner and waves off Will’s offer of help and returns with a small smirk on his face.

“Truite saumonée au bleau with vegetables and broth, served with hollandaise sauce on the side.”

Will visibly tenses. Hannibal sits and finally meets his glower.

Little politeness exists between them. Hannibal recognizes that anyone else would be unbearably tedious to put up with, but Will’s anger comes from too fascinating a place to care. It simmers parallel to his hunger, turns his eyes red, focuses with the intensity of a predator. It’s fascinating to see the resentment mixed so inextricably from his desperation. 

His restraint is a taut thread ready to snap at any moment. It has a beautiful noise when plucked.

Will takes a bite and his jaw tenses as he forces himself to chew.

“A fisherman who isn’t fond of fish,” Hannibal observes.

Will glares at him again. 

“Don’t play dumb, Doctor Lecter. You’re not good at it.”

“I am behind on my shopping.”

“Well, when will you  _ not _ be.” His hands drop to his lap.

“Is the pleasure of my company not enough for you?”   
  


Will’s face softens slightly. In reality, Will shows up at any random time. When he has a breakthrough on a case, when he mistakenly kisses someone, when Jack infuriates him too much to sit still. A mutually unspoken pact to ignore the worst in each other to continue enjoying the best.

“What are you playing at? Are you too close to…” Will trails off and gulps. Too close to speaking aloud what they so carefully skirt around.

“I just wanted to see what would happen.”

Will slams his napkin on the table as he stands up abruptly, nearly sending the glassware tipping over.

“Very funny. Is it blackmail now? Or what, want to write a paper on me? Some good old sadism? I wouldn’t even need—I wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t brought me that fucking breakfast.”

He paces back and forth behind the dining room chairs, scuffing the floor with his heels. 

“You have been hungry your whole life. You think you could have lasted much longer? What was it like? Day by day, seeing skin, seeing death, smelling it, so close to nearly pulling it inside of you. It’s a shame to ignore what you’re truly capable of.”

Will shakes his head. “You can’t reduce me to this.”

“It is the opposite of a reduction. You are everything inside of you. You do not see what a remarkable man you are.” Hannibal stands and walks around the table. Will tenses again.

“I see exactly who I am.”

“Do you expect to watch from the sidelines your whole life? It isn’t just the food that satisfies your belly. What drives you is too incredible to ignore.”

“What drives me is some psychological damage, probably. Fuck. I need a better therapist.” He wipes his hand across his face. His forehead is a sheen as he starts to sweat. 

“Repression is not the answer, Will. You think the rest of the world doesn’t hunger? You think God gave us this urge to deny it?”

Hannibal steps forward again and wraps a hand around the back of Will’s neck. His muscles are rock hard where they tense. Hannibal rubs against his nape until Will sways closer ever so slightly and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Tell me, Will, what will you do if I refuse to set the table for you?”

Will opens his eyes and he stares at Hannibal’s neck. He sways closer once more, focuses his eyes on the pulse.

“Do you fantasize about ripping the flesh out of my neck? At the trapezius is such thick, strong muscle.”

“Hannibal…” Will shakes his head and tries to step back, but Hannibal holds him firmly.

Will sways in close, setting his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. They’ve never been this close before. It takes considerable restraint to not grab at Will’s waist, pull him in flesh. Will breathes in deeply. Hannibal waits to see what will happen, lets his head tilt in the opposite direction.

Hannibal considers the difference between hunger and lust, if there can be said to be any. When Will jerks back, he stares at Hannibal’s mouth for a moment, creases his shirt with his fist.

Will gulps and closes his eyes when he begins to whisper.

“You want me to… change. Evolve. Become.”

“Yes,” Hannibal hisses.

“Where the hell did you even come from?”

“Perhaps a divinity connected us.”

“It’s too ugly a thought. This is too surreal. What you’re suggesting.”

“When will you look at yourself through your own eyes? Through my eyes?”

“Hannibal…” Will says, his voice like a warning.

Hannibal finds himself needing to look away from the eye contact.

He surprises himself. He rarely feels shy or self-conscious. Then again, things rarely feel as important as Will does. 

Things are rarely as beautiful as Will staring up at him with his eyebrows slightly raised. An expression that says  _ I see you. That joke, I caught it. That metaphor, that reference, I understood. I know what is going on in your head when you aren’t speaking and I notice each look you give me even if you think I don’t. I see. _

Will takes hold of Hannibal’s shoulders and pushes him away.

He’s gone in a flash and Hannibal feels the absence in the vibrating air that surrounds him. There’s a frustrating itch he experiences when Will leaves, an ache at the centre of his core. 

The next step will be set into motion. It is only a matter of days. Will is going to be hungry.


	3. Chapter 3

It does look like a boat. The snow drifting in the wind is not unlike the twinkling droplets of a crashing wave. Orange light amidst the cold darkness elicits feelings of warmth and safety. Drifting in open space. Hannibal would like to lead Will out of it. And here he comes, running after Buster.

“Randall.”

The young man meets his eyes again.

“Don’t kill Will’s dog,” Hannibal warns.

He slinks back into the shadows. He ought to go home. Wait for Will to find him. Bring him his prize.

After he sees Will in the clearing, gun at the ready and eyes searching, it’s far too tempting. He doesn’t deny himself of pleasures this great. He walks along the path that Will ran with Buster tucked protectively under his arm. 

He watches Randall stalk around the house, searching for an entrance. His stance is low and impressive, an animal through and through, but an artificial one at that.

The wind creates a song around him, one that’s high strung and full of potential. He breathes in deeply outside the door. Whatever happens, he intends to enjoy it.

His life is good here. His success allows him a great deal of freedom. There is always company to enjoy. An array of cultural events. The eye of the FBI creates a fun kind of game. He always thought he might retire to Italy. Perhaps spend a few years in Japan.

Place and time and security feel far less important these days. Any other company drags. The game has lost its appeal. It’s worming the odd smile out of Will that leaves him satisfied. It’s feeling how Will’s energy settles into bliss after a full stomach. It’s the couple of nights that Will stayed a bit later than usual, flipped through his books with a tongue loose from wine. Revealing bits and pieces of a life that Hannibal wants to eat up. Love. A funny thing, it is. 

The love he knows has been scarred by loss. It’s a tedious thing to feel love on the brink of happiness. Especially when the reciprocity is questionable. From inside the house, he hears a scream of pain and smiles.

The door clicks open and the curtains draw. As Will’s head lifts up, tendons and flesh rip from Randal Tier’s neck and slap down his chin. His mouth falls open and out falls the gore he was just chewing. It splatters on the floor. 

He breathes for a long moment and bunches up his fists.

“You sent him to kill me.” Will sounds calmer than he looks.

“Not to kill you.”

“No? What’s that mean, Doctor Lecter?” Will’s voice is sarcastic. He pushes to his feet and saunters a step closer. 

Hannibal smiles.

“You think I’m deadlier than the machine he crafted? Wanted to see what would happen?”

“I trusted what would happen.”

Will lets out a chuckle. Comes closer. The eyes of a predator, wide and red. Blood drips down his chin. It’s the most beautiful sight Hannibal has ever seen.

Hannibal puts a hand out, reaching for Will. “See? This is all I ever wanted for you.”

Will gets his fists around the lapels of Hannibal’s jacket and yanks with enough force to send Hannibal skidding across the floor. He nearly hits the body of Randall Tier, lifeless and bloody. The moment he turns back, Will lands on his stomach, momentarily winding him.

“You. I know who you are, Hannibal. I can see you. You’re evil.”

The first blow hits his cheek, snapping his head to the side before he can breathe again. He doesn’t need air, he doesn’t need control, he just needs to turn his head so he can look into Will’s eyes before the second blow comes, harder this time. Blood fills his mouth. He looks up again and appraises the rage, the hunger, the desire. Another punch comes, ruthless. Another hits his nose with a crunch. He’ll lose consciousness if Will keeps it up like this for much longer, or he’ll be beaten to death and he’d rather not be.

The blows falter. He blinks past blurry eyes and sees Will bring his knuckles to his mouth. 

Slowly and deliberately, Hannibal tilts his head to expose his neck.

Will leans down, more hesitant this time. His large coat drapes over them as he lays on Hannibal’s torso. The outline of teeth wraps around his pulse, pressing against skin. His breath comes out in quick gasps.

Oh dear, Hannibal thinks. He’s going to be eaten alive.

Perhaps now is the time to fight back. Is he going to let Will kill him? He’s far from suicidal but against all rationality, he loves the feeling of Will’s teeth on him. When they dig into his skin, he can’t help but sigh in pleasure. 

If there’s any way he wants to go, it’s to be ravaged by a monster, taken by all of the savagery he’s ever craved. If there is any last lesson he wants to learn from this beautiful world, it is to truly understand why so many poets compare an orgasm to death—to know the beauty of what he has done unto so many by the only person who could ever be his equal. 

He feels so utterly aware of each place they’re touching. How grounding Will’s weight is, how warm his skin is, how steady and loud his heartbeat is. It’s a connection Hannibal wants to savour more than anything he can remember before. And he _is_ savouring it because Will has paused where he is. His teeth loosen. His weight falls a little heavier, and he twitches.

Not a twitch. More like a rut, one that shakes his body as though he can’t quite help it. Hannibal puts a guiding hand onto Will’s hip and is rewarded with Will grinding down against him. It’s no longer teeth against his neck but tongue, sucking and licking and tasting.

Will grinds down again and his body trembles violently as he does.

Will whimpers. “I need…” 

Hannibal shivers at the sound. His own mouth salivates.

“Let me.” Hannibal gets a hand between them and finds Will’s zipper. Will moves to make it easier for him and then groans when Hannibal finds skin, gathering precome in his fist and everything clicks into place. Will nips at his neck again and then lays off with a lick.

Hannibal can’t help but nuzzle against the side of Will’s head. It’s more than he ever dreamed of, it’s more than he ever thought was possible, a person so perfect. The heat in his hand and the adrenaline-filled body above him and the taste and smell of blood and sweat all around.

The instant Hannibal strokes him, Will lifts his head and kisses him—if it can even be called a kiss, if it’s anything less than an entire consumption of Hannibal, tasting every inch of his mouth, all the blood that pools in his gums and below his nose. Will sucks at it and moans and grasps at him with a shocking amount of energy. All Hannibal can do is make a fist with his hand and let Will grind back and forth, faster and faster.

Will’s face hovers closer until their noses brush. Hannibal stays still, unsure of what to expect of Will’s fixed, predatory gaze until he feels teeth on his upper lip. It pinches and burns and he stays still and revels in the feeling. At the tear of flesh and spill of blood, Will lets out a moan from the back of his throat, still grinding his hips. He licks at Hannibal’s mouth and swallows, then moves to the side and bites Hannibal’s cheek, _hard,_ ripping out a substantial chunk. Hannibal scrunches up his face in pain.

Will gulps back and his eyes shake, staring at the cuts on Hannibal’s face. There is clear restraint behind his eyes, trying not to maul Hannibal completely.

“God, you taste so good.”

Hannibal is suddenly speechless. 

“All… the fucking time…” Will says, breathing heavily into Hannibal’s mouth.

“Oh, _Will_.”

“I just _want._ More and more all the time, I’m just fucking _itching_ for, God, _something._ I feel like I could eat the world raw and I don’t know what will—if anything will ever stop it.” He groans and yanks at Hannibal’s hair until his neck is straining. 

“Let me try to satisfy you. I’ll do everything in my power, _let me.”_

Will nods passionately, grinds faster into his hand and whines and shakes, pressing Hannibal into the floor, his entire body dragging up and down.

“Anything, Will, anything, I want this for both of us.”

“I need…”

Will’s head moves down to his neck again and the teeth are back at the meaty part where his shoulder and neck connect. Hard. Tearing this time, really. Hannibal feels every millimetre he presses down to break the skin and the release of blood, it oozing out around Will’s teeth, but Will doesn’t stop. He clamps down and makes a noise closer to a screech and starts to swallow back shreds of flesh and oh dear, Hannibal _is_ being eaten alive, and it feels like nothing he’s ever experienced before, and suddenly he’s rethinking everything he has ever known about God.

Will spills over his hand, hot and fast and tears at his skin and gulps and slurps and for as long as the tension is rock hard in his body, he lets out a whining noise that sounds like music to Hannibal’s ears. 

It lasts for what seems like an eternity and then Hannibal can feel it when every inch of his body relaxes into nothingness. 

Boneless, he collapses down heavily and then rolls off of Hannibal. Hannibal rolls with him and finds his eyes, kisses his bloody mouth, once, twice, repeatedly, and Will lets him.

He pulls back and sees a peacefulness that he always wondered if he could find in Will. His pupils are blown out and a loose smile emerges on his face. He laughs, incredulous, and stares deep into Hannibal’s eyes.

“Oh. It’s beautiful,” he mutters, blood sputtering out of his mouth as he does.

Hannibal nods. His shoulder burns.

Will pulls closer on the hard floor, an arm wrapped around Hannibal’s shoulder. His breathing slows until Hannibal can barely hear it. 

It is then that Hannibal realizes how dearly he’s been changed. That for all of the art and literature he has collected on the subject of cannibalism, on love and consumption and desire, he has an entirely different meaning for it now. That perhaps the point of his life is to be devoured, to be loved, and not the other way around as he had once thought.

Eventually, Will clears his throat and pulls Hannibal out of his blissful thoughts.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Of course. I’ll need to clean the wound soon. And we’ll need to have a discussion about where you can safely feast on me.”

“Where the hell did you come from? Who gave you to me?” Will asks, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I think it’s rather that you were gifted to me.” He slides a hand up into Will’s hair up the nape of his neck and holds him tight.

-

A long while later, they sit at the kitchen table. Will gently wraps Hannibal’s shoulder with gauze. A bandage is already secured to his cheek. Will's hands are steady, his touch affectionate. Their legs press together under the table.

Blood is dripping into the hardwood flooring in the other room. Randall Tier’s cheeks are entirely gone, revealing the set of human teeth, exposed in a way that looks satisfyingly animalistic. Most of the blood is oozing out of a deep wound on his neck, a bite mark.

Will ignores the body, stares forward with a serene expression. Bliss. Satisfied, at least for a short while. The front of his shirt is stained and it’s clear he tried to wipe the blood off of his face and neck, but the tint remains. His hand is raw and bloody.

“Such taboo. Cannibalism. Murder,” he mutters.

“Hunger. Destruction. Such integral parts of humanity. Acts of God, you might say. Where would we be if we didn’t crave? If we couldn’t start new?”

Will tapes down the last piece of gauze. “Where, indeed.”

“Don’t go inside, Will. You’ll want to retreat. You’ll want it. As the glint of the rail tempts us as we hear the approaching train. Stay with me.”

He frowns. “Where else would I go?”

“You have everywhere to go. You should be quite pleased. I am.”

“Of course you are.”

  
“I don’t care that what you do is taboo. I want you to be happy. I want you to be satisfied. I want you to feel truly sated, a breath of peace, to lay your head on your pillow each night in bliss, all you’ve ever wanted filling your belly.”

“What all do you want to give me?”

Hannibal pauses. A hunger in himself. He squeezes Will’s wrist where he’s still holding it.

“What do you want?” Hannibal asks. 

“I want some whiskey.”

Hannibal stands. “The first of many things I can, and will readily, give you,” he jokes. Silly thing to say, to fill the air so unnecessarily. Perhaps the jokes that Will makes are rubbing off on him. It isn’t the first time he’s noticed himself adopting a small habit or two. 

He walks to Will’s liquor cabinet and pours them each a few fingers. He turns and Will has followed, standing close behind him.

Will sighs and holds the glass to his chest. “This isn’t sustainable.”

“I would argue on the contrary.”

“I’ll get arrested. Jack… he’s already acting suspicious. Of me, Abigail.”

“Then we’ll leave. Immediately if you’d like. Leave a note. Pick up Abigail.”

“Just run away? Be together?”

“Don’t you see we’re just alike?”

Will looks at him with wide eyes.

“You all deserve what you want. I am not lying when I say I’d like to give it to you. We’ll do our best to bring the dogs.”

Slowly, Will’s head dips forward until it rests on Hannibal’s shoulder, next to the wound. He breathes in deeply, then slowly nods.

**Author's Note:**

> if you'd like to share or come chat on tumblr you can do that [here!](https://will-gayham.tumblr.com/post/636810303706890240/this-beast-that-youre-after)


End file.
